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Chapter 27 - The Lost History of the Hipombrus (CF)
“Seasons upon seasons ago, to the point where Cloansar is closer in history to us than this, when the world had never heard the name of Cloansar, when science and magic were basically nonexistent, living consisted of agriculture in tiny villages, each village had their own chief, and the thought of the Kingdoms that would one day come to roost in the Mushroom World would be dismissed as simple senility.” The old man had lit a confined fire on top of the large branch, Tubba, Gonzales and him were sitting on, and began to tell the story of the winged Clubbas both Tubba and Gonzales had saw. Galmajo and Dibby joined them before the old man could begin, resigned to the realization that neither Tubba or Gonzales would accompany them back to the SS Mahruav until they learned the full story. The moon began to appear in the sky, the stars different from what Tubba had ever seen them before. He wanted to know why. He had never seen this arrangement of stars before, but he had to content himself with the explanation of the winged Clubbas. So, under the darkness of night, the old man began to tell the story, his yellow skin glinting unhealthily in the firelight. “This island was home to a species that had evolved here, begun to know this island greater than any other. The Hilpromflus.” The old man held up a hand to stall Tubba and Gonzales, both of whom had started to correct the man. Before Cloansar had pioneered club-fighting among Clubbas two thousand years ago, his species, and their species, had been known to the world as Hipombrus. Tubba guessed this was the old man wished to say, but his voice was raspy after years in isolation. “No, not the Hipombrus.” He said, smiling a little, showing cracked yellow teeth. “I’ll explain that later. So, thousands of Hilpromflus lived here, many tens of hundreds of years ago. However, issues arose with a small ‘founder population,’ among a primitive species. Genetic defects began to grip the population. One notable one was against everything a Hilpromflus was - rather than wings, some varieties grew none. How was one of those supposed to live here?” Tubba saw where this was going. His mouth fell open as the man continued, his eyes glinting, locked on the lights that was the clearing where they had seen the flying Clubbas. “There were hundreds of them. Thousands of them. They were... inadequate for life here. The trees were too high, their agility too lacking to climb quickly. The Hilpromflus shipped them all out. Every last one. According to their oral and written histories - they spent years constructing the boats, the ships, before sending them to sea. They were unworthy to be on this island. They were removed.” The wizened man chuckled a little. “You’ve probably already seen where this is going - each subsequent wingless Hilpromflus was put on a ship and given the same treatment. After a few centuries, the wingless variant just stopped appearing, artificially selected out. Many died on the crude ships that were built, sailing the seas with no idea where they were going, lost. But those that did survive... here’s where the Hilpromflus’ records are woefully inadequate, and we must lapse into theory.” Although he was paying attention with rapt attention to the story the gnarled man was telling him, Tubba cast a glance out at the clear signs of the Hilpromflus. How had this place slipped from memory? The rasping voice of the man answered: “It becomes clear. Some of the thousands of wingless Hilpromflus reached the Mushroom Mainland. Speaking their native tongue, they were unable to initially communicate with the populations already present on the Mainland. When asked what they were - many probably answered Hilpromflus, but to the ears of those on the Mainland... it sounded like Hipombrus. These Hipombrus, as they were now called, hid the secret of the island. No one wants to admit they were just a reject. The island faded from memory with each passing generation losing more of the native Hilpromflus tongue, and gaining more and more the language of the Mainland.” “The ancient Clubba language...” Tubba realized, his voice barely a whisper. The language of the Clubbas of before, that no one seemed to be fluent in - that had been lost to time, just like this island. “By the time the Hipombrus you Clubbas revere - Cloansar - came along,” the man croaked, his milky eyes looking completely white in the dark orange light, “the language of the Hilpromflus had all but been lost. Cloansar knew nothing about his history - nothing about this island. He proceeded to redefine everything a Hipombrus stood for, altering the course of his species from their parents forever. Hilpromflus had turned into Clubba.” Sitting still, Tubba looked back out to the village. Did he have family there? Long lost family that shared the same blood, but he had never known? Did they even know what had happened to the wingless variants? They didn’t seem to be interested, as they had kept to their island for so many years. He was having a difficult time wrapping his head around the vast, inevitable passage of time. If he had family here, they were Cloansar’s distant ancestors’ children’s children, so cousins as separate as the Mushroom World and it’s sun. This was the ancestral home of the Clubbas, a place where his ancestors had been thrown out of, shamed, their tails between their legs, because of their inability to survive with a lack of wings. Images began to flash through Tubba’s head. He saw portraits of Cloansar, one of his most distant ancestors, he felt his story echo through his bones, louder than he had ever heard it before. Born as the son of the late village chief, the youngest of his siblings, the runt, the one without the muscle mass to compete with the rest. But he found a way through it, forging the club with the spiked mace, still perfect for his species two thousand years later. He wandered through Spiked Clubbas and Clubbas, confident in his ability to lead, crafting the strongest force the world had ever seen, settling in Gusty Gulch, spreading his reach across the known Mushroom World, becoming known as the Emperor of the Clubbas. He ruled for decades, giving Clubbas a purpose that they had never known before, opening their eyes to their innate skills, skills they had never realized before. Because they had always been rejects. Cloansar’s distant ancestors were rejects. Tubba’s distant ancestors were rejects. Every living Clubba as the Mushroom World knew it - were rejects. They had wandered for centuries after being cast out, misfits in a Mainland that had never seen them, rejects in the island that had. They settled down in agricultural lands, becoming known as violent and moody, and a species that the others stayed away from. It was not until Cloansar rose to power that he gave his ancestors the respect that they should’ve always deserved, either from the own species that cast them out, or the Mainland that saw them as eccentric and out of place. Gusty Gulch flashed into Tubba’s mind. Cloansar had chosen Gusty Gulch because it reminded him the most of his south Mainland village, but unknown to him, his ancestors had chosen the south Mainland village because of the similar conditions to the rainforest, the island, that they had lost. Humid, hot air. Soft beaches of sand, large cliffs. There were no trees in Gusty Gulch, but Forever Forest was just outside the perimeter. Gusty Gulch was as much a part of the Clubbas, the first new, permanent home that adopted them since they were thrown out of the island, as their club, or their lazy attitude. It was in that moment that Tubba realized he wasn’t fighting for the royal Clubbas, or even the monarchy. No, he was fighting for every Clubba that had ever lived, that had wandered, lost and disrespected, until the Empire rose to power. He was fighting for the rejects, to claim the home for the ancestors that had the courage to look forward, not back, when they were thrown out of their home. This was no longer a matter of the Koopas or the Clubbas. It was a matter of a Clubba’s heritage. Every Clubba's.